Though Poppies Grow
by phlox
Summary: A false accusation. A society out for vengeance. A cruel circumstance parting young lovers. A woman's search for peace. A man's journey home... *A Dramione/Atonement Remix*


**Though Poppies Grow by phlox**

Written for the Dramione-Remix LJ Fest, 2011. Prompt couple: Cecilia and Robbie, Atonement. Merely _inspired _by the prompt couple, however...

Most profound thanks go to my friend and beta, my mentor and cheerleader, eucalyptus, for her hand-holding, enthusiasm, and unflagging support.

**:: ::**

* * *

**:: ::**

They come for him just before midnight.

The crowd is wired, the evening fresh with the possibility of the imminent new year, the punchbowl of spiked egg nog half-full. There is excitement as the Ministry Law Enforcement Agents sweep into the room, and the murmurs rise in volume and pitch as it becomes clear who they're here for. As for him, he looks deliberately bored as they read the charges.

They walk him out (not dragging, not forcing – he'll not allow them to strip him of his dignity, he'll not show fear of where he's headed) with his hands bound behind. His eyes do not seek hers. She moves toward him without thinking, her heels clicking against the parquet floor, and she hikes up the skirt of her gown in a fist as she strides across the ballroom.

Getting dressed that evening, she'd practiced in the mirror. Schooling her expression to neutrality, she'd learned to calm her embarrassed flush in the face of examination. She'd cared whether people would know and had carefully constructed a mask for her friends, her colleagues, for the gossips at the Ministry Gala. She'd cared how it would look to people if they knew what she felt for a (former, _former_) Death Eater. She'd cared that she was supposed to be his superior in nature, circumstance, and station. She'd cared what her friends would think, and she'd stood with them on the other side of the room all evening, his presence never escaping her notice.

She calls out to him, not caring that everyone is watching, and they stop and turn, mainly from the shock of it. His face is schooled into that same neutrality. She has to look deep into his eyes for emotion, but what she finds tears a hole in her heart. Her hands reach for him, not caring about the murmurs from the crowd as her fingers feel the rasp of stubble on his jaw.

She kisses him, not caring what anyone thinks. The press of her lips against his leaves her paralyzed, unable to breathe, unable to pull away. His mouth softens under hers, and he draws a small, quick breath, breaking the spell, giving her permission to let go. She pulls back, but only just, and her whisper seems to vibrate and echo against the silence. She speaks, not caring who hears. "Come back... come back to me." And it feels like the last she will ever utter.

They jostle him, insistent, and he goes... he is _gone_, just like that. It feels as though the string that connects her to him pulls, tugs, and rips a piece of her to follow. It is a great, red gash for everyone to see.

She doesn't care who knows any longer.

**:: ::**

* * *

**:: ::**

It was a secret she'd kept from everyone, not the least from herself.

It had been demeaning for him to submit to her authority, to work under her, but the Ministry had intended it to be. Years of service, penance; in the opinions of many, it was far too little price to pay. But he'd done it, and had proven himself with every day. To _her_, he'd proven himself. To her, he was a person, not a catalogue of mistakes. What apologies and atonement he'd needed to make to her had been hers to demand and her business alone.

They'd moved toward each other over the course of ages, like a stream making its path through rock.

The moment he'd kissed her, it had seemed like she'd always known his taste and he'd always known her weak spots, though at first they'd stumbled and fumbled nervously. She'd never done it up against a wall, but it had happened so quickly, and where else would they have gone? Their story existed solely within those four walls, and it was too fragile to take elsewhere.

His hands had pushed under her robes as she'd franticly drawn him from his trousers. When he'd eagerly pushed inside her, his moan had expressed such pure relief she'd been moved to hold his face and kiss the very center of his forehead. She'd felt protective of him, of them, of her own raw and open heart.

What had followed she remembered only as a series of snapshots. His downward gaze, brow furrowed, as he'd watched himself thrust in and out of her. The blur of her office over his shoulder. The look in his eyes as he'd met her gaze fearlessly, unashamed of what she could see there. His light smile after she came, just before he'd leaned in to capture her lips, speeding to his own release. The beauty in his own face then, when all the fears and frustrations he carried had been washed away.

It had been a secret she'd kept from herself, but he'd known all along. His heart was much smarter than hers.

Afterward, her imagination had spun forward to the possibilities and dreams of what could be: awkward confessions and interdepartmental transfers, walks hand in hand through Diagon Alley, a life lived fully, together. What she'd _expected_ had been secret trysts, the castigations of loved ones, and hits to her reputation. He hadn't questioned it; there was no look of betrayal in his face to match the self-disgust burning in her gut, but instead a playful look of affection as they'd hurried to right themselves at the knock on her door.

That night, she'd gone to greet the new year with the feel of his kiss a ghost on her lips.

**:: ::**

* * *

**:: ::**

She wears the lavender dress on her first visit.

He's always staring at her as though she's an ice cream sundae when she wears it, so she knows it's his favorite. It's taken her two weeks and five days to get a visitor's permit for Azkaban and the last nine hours of calming her nerves to walk through the steel doors. She ignores the lascivious looks of the guards and the hollers of the lower-security prisoners, walking with her head held high.

Having done research on the latest regulations and practices, she's prepared. She's studied pictures of the uniforms given to inmates and descriptions of the permanent restraints used on the wrists and ankles, so she will not be shocked. The protocols and procedures for visitors is ingrained, so she knows before she enters that the small room will have a table across the width of it and a magical field running ceiling to floor, which no one in restraints can penetrate. She can pass things through to his side of the table, but he will be burned if any part of him comes in contact with it.

They will have an hour. Their conversation may be monitored, but no guards will be present in the room. Her heart beats wildly with fear and excitement as she sits waiting, watching the door. She's missed him. She longs to see him again.

Nothing could have prepared her for the plain fact of him shuffling in, shackled, wrists locked tightly in front of him. He looks like he's neither slept nor showered in days, but what's most painful to witness is the look of clear surprise on his face upon seeing her. A knot lodges in her throat at the sight of the proud man diminished. A great and powerful animal that's been leashed, cowed, caged, is a horror to see.

She stands abruptly, greeting him with a smile as though they're meeting for tea, and she doesn't know what to do with her hands. A ripple of emotion passes over his face as he takes her in from head to toe. Her gaze lingers for too long on the black and purple running from his left temple down his cheekbone, a red gash swelling it at the center. Seeing the clench of his jaw, she tears her eyes away and heeds the tight warning in his expression. She spends the next fifty-five minutes ignoring the wound.

On another occasion, she ties a pink ribbon in her hair, taken from the present he gave her on her last birthday. (The wrapping had been so beautiful she could hardly stand to open it. There had been chocolates inside; dark chocolate truffles – her favorite.) This time, she takes no notice of how he winces with each shift in his chair, favoring his ribs. She sees him sniffing periodically at the air, as though trying to smell her perfume through the wards.

When she wears the flower-printed swing coat that he'd always teased her mercilessly about, it brings about the closest thing she's seen to a smile from him since... before. If it will promise to always light his face like this, even for a moment, she'll dress like a clown and present herself weekly for ridicule. Here, she pays no attention to the swelling of his right ear, and the dried trickle of blood flaking off onto his collar.

The time she shows up in the red scarf he bought her for Christmas, it takes everything in her power to disregard the way he doesn't seem able to lean back in his chair, and the chalky white pallor of his face as he takes shallow breaths. He very pointedly asks her to tell him the story of how she, Ron, and Harry recovered the Philosopher's Stone from Voldemort first year, despite the fact he's heard it (and scorned it) before.

At all of these and every visit in between, she's able to engage him in conversation about only trivial things. Speaking to him about his trial and defense or entreaties she's made on his behalf shuts him down for the rest of the hour. She learns quickly to focus on his eyes, on the sound of his voice, and on the calm she feels just _seeing _him, and she pretends they're somewhere else. At every visit, he asks her to leave first, five minutes early, and he stands each time as though she's his invited guest.

Every week, she makes it all the way down the dank hallways, through the security, across water and blustery wind in a rickety boat, back to the Apparition point, and up the four flights of stairs to her flat before she breaks down. Sick with herself for not being able to endure _seeing _what he's suffering, she feels shame in the face of his endurance.

**:: ::**

* * *

**:: ::**

They hadn't needed much convincing; not with one of _that _sort.

There'd been a direct accusation, and it hadn't mattered one bit of what. For years, they had been searching and watching for something, anything, to pin on him. He'd gotten off too easily, and he was surely trouble waiting to happen. Just the fact he'd seemed so reformed was cause for their suspicion.

The ruling party had swept into power a year after the war, brought in on a wave of public disgust with leniency. The blood thirst had silenced the voices of the reformers, those who had actually _fought _the war and didn't want to ever fight another one. The MLE was taken over by a firebrand who had thought the winning of a war left spoils for the victors to exploit. Retribution had been the order of the day.

She'd had too much knowledge of the scars that ran deep and wide across Europe from the Muggle wars of the twentieth century, and she had despaired at the new order. Demand for reparation only caused wounds that fester and never heal. In far corners of the globe, World War I was still being fought over lines drawn by the conquerors. The Second Great Wizarding War was set to rip a seam down the center of the wizarding world. It would never end.

A vague story of assault in Knockturn Alley was all it had taken. With his name dropped in the middle of it, the whispers about the youngest Greengrass daughter's "troubles" that had followed her for years were easily forgotten. Mustn't question the veracity of the victim, especially when the accused was guilty without question. ('You know anyone can build up a tolerance to Veritaserum. I heard _He _required it of his followers.')

Public knowledge that the man in question had refused the Greengrass' overtures of a betrothal to that very daughter were completely ignored. Disregarded too was the complaint he'd filed with the Ministry about a string of unsolicited and increasingly erratic letters from the girl herself. Everything had been discounted but what they'd sought to accomplish.

His only alibi had been his mother. ('We all know the lengths she'll go to, protecting her son. The lies drip from that tongue, sweet as honey.') His only defender, that glorious war heroine, had been proof of the danger this boy posed, how insidiously he could burrow his way into anyone's confidence. The more either woman had spoken on his behalf, the worse it looked.

The trial date had been withheld, set back again and again. Then, a prosecutor had petitioned the Wizengamot regarding an obscure passage in an antiquated law. It had so happened that the nature of his post-war parole allowed them to hold him without trial on suspicion alone. The great minds of that fine and prestigious body had sighed with satisfaction and wiped their hands clean.

A great miscarriage of justice had been righted. ('Thank Merlin. Finally!') Punishment was the only key to law and order.

**:: ::**

* * *

**:: ::**

"What is this you're—" His gesture is meant to encompass the entirety of her outfit. "Why are you dressed like this?" He asks with the general manner of one who has been waiting a long time to pose the question and is interrupting her story about wood-nymphs, having finally run out of patience.

"You don't like it?" she says, half-teasing, but partly out of worry that yellow truly isn't her color. At his dry look, she shrugs. "Well, it's a special occasion. Coming here. I'm... dressing accordingly."

The pause is weighty, his look inscrutable. "A _funeral _is a special occasion. You wouldn't wear a summer sundress to one."

She smirks. "That would all depend on the venue. There's no reason a funeral can't be festive."

He looks around wryly at their surroundings, eyebrow raised, takes a breath to wind up his response, but abruptly abandons it with a shake of his head. He gazes at her, and she barely breathes until he asks her for quill and parchment. She fumbles for them, excited; she's presented them to him before, asking for notes to help with his defense. He's declined and changed the subject.

As he starts to write, she watches how his restraints require he hold the wrist of his writing hand with the other to keep it out of the way, telling herself not to be bothered by it. Fifteen of their precious minutes pass before he is finished. He holds out three pieces for her to retrieve through the barrier, and as she glances down eagerly to read, he begins to speak.

"There's an account at Gringotts the Ministry doesn't know about. It was opened by my father during the war—"

"Draco..." In her hand is a list of possessions and their value, including the address of an estate, a letter to the Goblins giving her access to his account, and finally, a letter of bequest in her name.

"You'll need to go to the family solicitor for the key. It was left with him by my father and will only be released with the password written at the bottom of the second—"

"Draco!" There's suddenly no oxygen in the room and the great gasps of air are no help. "I'm not—"

"You know it'll only be seized." His voice is calm but firm. "I want you to have it if—"

"No." She thrusts the parchment back through the barrier but he ignores it, and it flutters to the table untouched. Gathering her things blindly with trembling hands, she tries to stand on shaky legs.

"Hermione." His voice is stern but composed, then turns more insistent. "Hermione!"

His urgency stays her frenzied movements. It's taking all her effort to breathe, and she can't look at his face.

"Hermione, listen. I'm not going to get out of here."

He is so resolute, so sure, she collapses in her chair and looks up. Even through the blur of gathering tears, the intensity of his gaze stills her.

"Hermione, there's not going to be a trial," he says evenly, and his voice is kind. "There's nothing you can do." Leaning forward as far as he can, his voice is as low and intimate as this horrid place will allow. "Hermione... if something happens to me, if I die in here, I want you to promise—"

Her eyes close on the great flood of tears that fall. Still trying to pull in breath, it takes her a moment to hear him repeating her name, softly at first, then more urgently. She opens her eyes to see him stretching the fingers of his cuffed hands toward the barrier, beseeching. Her hand moves on its own through to his, and the warmth of the connection finally brings oxygen into her lungs. The tears are almost soothing as she allows them to fall.

She's stronger now, bolstered by his touch. "Draco, I live through every week, just... You have to know, if they'd let me, I'd be here every day... _every day_."

He looks down to her hand enclosed in his, cradling it as though it were a newborn kitten. "You're such a good girl, Hermione. So sweet..." he murmurs. Raising his head, his eyes are impossibly gentle. "But you can let go, love. You don't owe me this."

"No." She shakes her head vehemently to deny the very thought, the absurdity of this. "You're coming back, you're coming back to me, Draco." She aches at the surprise and disbelief he shows in the face of her desperation. Squeezing his hand, she says fiercely, "Nothing is right without you. Promise _me_... promise you'll try to come back."

The disbelief in his eyes is softening to a tremulous wonder when there's a commotion behind him. His head whips franticly to the clock on the wall, abject fear in his face as he sees the time. _The hour is up_. She hasn't left five minutes early.

He releases her hand and pushes the papers as far as he can toward the barrier, standing as the guard lumbers into the room. His expression pleads, begs her to go, to not _see _what's about to happen. As always, she does what he wishes.

Looking down, she focuses on gathering the papers and supplies into her bag. She doesn't hear the obscenity the guard calls him. Standing, she keeps her eyes averted and turns toward the door behind her. She doesn't see the guard slamming him up against the wall for the routine search. Stumbling out, she doesn't hear the barking commands to return him to his cell as though he were a trained dog.

She makes it five steps out the door before she starts to run. She doesn't stop running until she reaches the top of those four flights and the door of her flat.

**:: ::**

* * *

**:: ::**

His name is Jenkins, and when he smiles, he shows too much of his teeth.

He's smiling widely, the incessant shake of his head meant to convey regret as he explains that there's nothing he can do. She's come to the Head of Magical Law Enforcement to ask why her visitor's privileges have been revoked, intending to rage and wrangle, only to find that he's been moved from Azkaban.

Jenkins will not tell her to where.

All he says, brushing away her concern with a patronizing wave is, "It seems Mr Malfoy has had a chance to reexamine his priorities."

She stands then, having been taught that when one is engaged with an adversary, one shows respect. Calmly, she speaks of the years of service she's given to the Ministry. She goes on to describe the many sacrifices she made during the war and the key role she played in the victory of the Light. Following that, she enumerates the many powerful and influential people she knows and the ways in which they could make life hell for a Ministry Department Head. Through it all, Jenkins' infuriating smile tightens, but it does not fall. It's not until she moves to threats, mentioning Rita Skeeter and how joyously she would cry 'foul' from the rooftops, that she feels a hand wrap around her elbow and tug.

Turning, she sees it's Harry's hand, Harry's insistence, and Harry who is apologizing to Jenkins as he pulls her out of the office. He struggles with her all the way back down the hall to the offices of the lower Aurors before he lets go. She rounds on him. It's clear he was waiting outside for her, obvious that he knows... _has known _what's happened to him.

"Calm down, Hermione, you're making a scene."

"A _scene_?" she says incredulously. "You know damn well this isn't half of what I'll do, Harry Potter, if you don't—"

"He's at an MLE location. A sort of safe house." He speaks lowly, looking about furtively to be sure no one can hear. "There's a squad going after remaining followers of Voldemort. Tracking those who have escaped."

She's struck dumb, blinking at the sheer implausibility of what he's said. Glancing over his shoulder, she sees Ron standing uncomfortably by his desk a few meters away, watching intently. She turns back to Harry.

"It's a sort of... 'work-release' program," he says, his cheeks pinking. "I mean, not really, but it's a way for him to work off his sentence in another way—"

"He doesn't _have_ a sentence," she says harshly. "There would have to have been a _trial_—"

"Alright, I... It's a way for him to get out, okay?" Harry rubs his forehead and looks tired, but she's unimpressed. "There are places people with the Dark Mark can go, wards they can cross. He's very useful in this capacity."

A humorless laugh pushes out of her. "Useful, is he? That's wonderful. When was it everyone decided he was so bloody _useful_, then?"

He meets her glare evenly. "He was offered this months ago, right away, and he declined. Said he didn't want to fight for _this _Ministry." He shrugs. "He changed his mind for some reason a couple weeks ago, and his solicitor let us know."

Her head swims with thoughts of him, the months of bruises, blood and humiliation. And she thinks of what she asked him, _demanded of _him when last they met. In the madness of what little choice he has, this is a way to come back, to never stop trying. She's overtaken by heart-stopping fear, and the guilt is crushing. It suddenly takes all her effort to stand, to get oxygen to her lungs.

Harry reaches for her, trying to usher her to a nearby chair, concern in the knit of his brow. She shakes him off.

"Hermione, it's okay. It's only until we make some headway, maybe a year or two— We're grateful to have him. There's no one else with a Mark who agreed to it."

"Oh. Oh, really." Now the laugh that comes out of her is hysterical, and Harry is taken aback. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Ron take a few steps forward. "How very convenient for you all that this opportunity presented itself."

The horror in Harry's eyes at the implication turns quickly to indignation. "You can't possibly think—"

"You're blind if you don't, Harry." She pushes past him, past Ron, ignoring their entreaties.

Walking out of the department, down hallways, through offices, across lobbies, she leaves _this _Ministry.

**:: ::**

* * *

**:: ::**

She's wearing the lavender dress.

Mere seconds after receiving the owl with directions and a Portkey from Harry, she'd flown to her closet to pull it from the back. Since he'd been gone, it had been too difficult to look at any of the clothes she'd worn for him. He'd smiled the first genuine smile she'd seen when she walked through the door.

He orders for them, as his French is fluent and hers is, well... like a Brit's. The café isn't what you'd call quaint; it's inexpensive and dingy, but she couldn't possibly care less. He doesn't seem too comfortable with it, but he's not got access to his family accounts. The clothes he wears are clearly from before, the quality evident. Even though they're a trifle large for him now, they're getting better service than they normally would in Paris because of his affluent look.

The silence between them isn't awkward, but he's sitting stiffly, one hand over the other, and she realizes why when the tea arrives. She hands him the plate with lemon while he's handing her the milk, and she sees the tremor in his hand as he takes it. He tries to put it down quickly, to cover, but she reaches across the crowded table to wrap it in her own. He stares down at them, together, her skin on his, and twists to intertwine their fingers. A great sigh comes from him as he closes his eyes.

"Draco. You don't have to do this for me." Leaning forward, her face is just inches from his. "I can't bear it if you think that I... that I would require—"

"I'm not," he says softly, lifting his head and the shutters from his eyes. "I'm doing it for..." His brow furrows, wanting to be clear, trying to find the words. "There are people, there are _men_who can stand without the weight of family, or obligation, or expectations, or their own mistakes." He squeezes her fingers and his voice lowers to a whisper. "If I could free myself from all that, if I could be that man, Hermione..." The confidence that washes over his face and stiffens his spine is a wonder. "I could walk the length and breadth of Europe to come back to you."

She's breathless, as though her heart has swelled too large to allow anything else in her chest. Impulsively, she leans forward and kisses his cheek, pausing to take in a full breath of him. Pulling back, she suggests they skip tea so he can show her his hotel, and she wants to laugh at his shock. He fumbles for the correct Muggle money to leave on the table, and she does laugh outright at his haste. He's flushed and a shy smile blooms on his face as he reaches for her hand to lead her away.

The lift is old, metal, and just big enough for two people. Closeness is not a problem for them though, and he wraps his arm about her waist. They hold onto each other, the rickety mechanism giving a thrill as it shoots up dangerously fast.

The room is clean but old, and none of the furniture matches. There's a threadbare, shaggy blanket serving as a duvet that is an orange not seen since the seventies, but the bed is large and looks soft. He's standing just inside the doorway, his hands in his pockets, looking up at her from under raised eyebrows. She spins once and laughs. She can't imagine a room more perfect.

Two large windows are on the far end and she walks to one, throwing it open. Leaning out, she looks right, then left and down the boulevard, seeing something peeking over the tops of the roofs opposite. At her shriek, he leans out beside her to look and scowls as she points out the tiny black blob. It's a genuine and inarguable view of the Eiffel Tower from his hotel window.

"Well, the very top, anyway, and that's the best part."

He turns his head to look at her, the clear message of his arched brow that she's insane. In the sunlight, a gentle breeze in his hair, he looks young, carefree. Suddenly everything feels like spring, and she grabs his face with both hands and kisses him. He wraps his arms around her, and there is a terrifying moment where they nearly tip out the window, but he slams his hand into the frame, righting them.

He pushes them back, back into the room, and they don't let go as they move. It feels like they can't get close enough, they can't breathe, drink, taste of each other enough. But then that's not enough. She fists the fabric of his shirt, yanking, un-tucking it from his trousers. He gasps as she pushes her hands under, smoothing up the bare skin of his back and around his chest.

He breaks the kiss to look at her, and there is insecurity, fear, in his eyes. She won't have any of that. Kissing his lips lightly as he stares down at her, she begins to unbutton his shirt. He runs his hand down her arm, grasping her hip, his other arm dropping at his side. He lets out a long, soft sigh as she runs her palm up the skin she's revealed, and his hand squeezes at her waist.

As she pulls the fabric over his shoulders and down his arms, she sees what he didn't want her to _see_. There are scars all over, some small, others large, and spanning in age the course of years. His Mark is like a bruise on his left arm, and he impulsively goes to cover it with the other hand as she reaches for it. Looking up at him, his forearm held lightly in her hands, she smiles and kisses his knuckles.

At the look of exhausted relief on his face, she wants to meld to him, to take every Mark and mar unto herself, so that her outside will match her insides, so that the two of them will _match _and the world will see what it's done to them.

Placing her hands on his shoulders, she pushes him back lightly, and he's confused until she steps back and starts to unzip her dress. He freezes, eyes widened for a moment, before his own hands eagerly unfasten and release himself from his clothes. They disrobe, never taking their eyes off each other.

He moves backward to sit on the side of the bed, and when she moves toward him, she gestures for him to scoot back and lie down. Crawling slowly over him, she visits, claims, and loves every one of those scars with her mouth. Squirming, moaning, growling beneath her, he tries repeatedly to reach for her, to touch her, but she pushes him lightly away. He's flushed and dazed by the time she's reached his face, and she kisses him deeply before pushing downward again.

He's barely breathing by the time she's hovering over his hard length, her warm breath causing goosebumps to form around the trail of hair leading to it. She wraps her hand around him, squeezing, and he groans. She lets go to run her tongue up the vein that runs to the tip, and he hisses. She opens her mouth and envelops the head and he gasps, wraps his hand in her hair and pulls her up to him.

He rolls them over and is inside her in an instant. Looking in her eyes, he begins to move. When he leans down to kiss her lips, she feels more connected to him than she's ever felt with another.

Abruptly, she understands what 'making love' really is. She'd always thought it such a silly term, an awkward, overly flowery description for a physical act, an animal need. But as she feels the heat of him within her, his heart over her, and his soul pouring through his eyes into her, she knows there can be no other word for it. It's emotion made manifest, the only thing left to do, the only way to convey feeling when mere words will not suffice.

Tears leak from her eyes without her permission, and he wipes and kisses them away with a gentle smile. He wipes everything clean, as she heals every scar. Again and again and throughout the night.

**:: ::**

* * *

**:: ::**

The rolled parchment of the letter is at the bottom of a navy blue satchel with a torn strap.

_Hermione,_

_There are so many things I need to say to you that I'm afraid to say. It's no secret that I'm a coward, so it shouldn't be a surprise to anyone that I write these things here, in a letter I will never send. How can I chance saying any of the things you deserve to hear? I'm too afraid to burst the unfathomable bubble of your trust. You've forgiven me all, everything, granting me grace I never deserved. I marvel at the depth of your forgiveness, at your capacity for it._

_I have none of it. My heart is blackened with anger and resentment. The list is long of those whom I will never forgive._

_To have been given the chance to atone for the wrongs I'd done you when we were kids was something I would never have expected. To have been accepted as your friend was a boon I would never have sought. To have been able to love you, as I truly love you, Hermione, is a gift I could never have imagined. So, predictably, the gods have punished me for reaching too far, for asking too much._

_I'm not a hero, Hermione, and I never will be. I'm selfish, and in my selfishness, I want you. It's that which leads me back, drives me on. But I do not deserve you, and it's that which makes me fear I will never succeed. I don't know how I shall return to you. I don't know whether I can or who I will be at the end of all this. I do know that I want to be with you, to live my life with you... and your ridiculous hair, your beastly cat, your annoying friends, your brightly colored dresses, and your big, forgiving heart._

_I yearn for you, Hermione. I pray that the gods who follow and torment me will allow me come back to you... I'm trying to come back to you._

_~D_

Also inside are three shirts, four pairs of silk pants, a wizarding novel that's part of a series about dragon-slayers, a package of chocolate frogs, the feather of a quill with the nib broken off, five sheets of rolled parchment, a book of Muggle matches with a business name and logo in Cyrillic, and most intriguingly, a package of airmail envelopes and stamps from five different countries.

She pauses at the goblin-wrought timepiece with silver filigree design, a peacock in the center. It's a Malfoy heirloom. He would have had it on him when he was arrested and would have had it returned to him when he left Azkaban with his other possessions.

"The team had gone after a target they'd been watching for ten days. They'd done all the surveillance, it was just a matter of one more sweep of the premises for the general layout, and that was being done by Malfoy and two Aurors." Harry takes a deep breath, standing with his arms crossed tightly, leaning back against the wall of the evidence room at the Ministry. "Sawbridge was found dead the next day one hundred meters from the compound. Jorkins and Malfoy have not been seen or heard from since." He steps forward and lays something down in the center of the rest on the table. "This was found near Sawbridge."

She doesn't look up from the letter in her hands. She doesn't need to look to know what it is. Hawthorn, ten inches. Unicorn tail hair. Though the words in her hands start to blur, she doesn't look up.

"Hermione." Harry moves closer, and his voice is filled with apologies. "The Ministry has informed the families. They're— Malfoy is officially listed as missing."

Rolling the letter tightly, she puts it back in the satchel along with everything else. She will not be allowed to take it, this evidence. She will not be allowed any piece of what they've left of him.

She tries and fails to push it away from her, to give it back, and a great sob rips from her lips as she clutches it to her chest, feebly, knowing how silly a thing it is to do. Feeling strong, warm arms wrap around her, she leans as they pull her into a comforting chest. Harry is the one tasked with the difficult messages, but it's Ron who gives the best solace. Something about the large family or the fire of his passion makes him the best shoulder to cry on she's ever known.

When her throat is raw and her eyes have run themselves dry, Harry kneels in front of her and pulls the satchel from her grip. They both tell her they're sorry. She's sure everyone's 'sorry.' There's lots to be sorry for, but it's just a word and an empty sentiment.

"When will you begin searching?"

After a moment of stunned silence, Ron begins, "Hermione, they've officially—"

"Bollocks!" She's satisfied to see them startle. "I want to know what you're going to do and when."

"They've closed it, Hermione," says Harry firmly. "There are no clues, no trail."

"The _three of us _could..."

"There's nothing to go on, Hermione. They've done all they can. They won't be—"

"So, it's 'they' now, is it? It was 'we' not too long ago." Her anger is righteous. It nearly warms the cold spot in her chest.

Harry's expression is tight. "I don't make the decisions, Hermione. I don't have that kind of power."

"Again, I say 'bollocks,'" she snaps. "Every one of us has power, we just give it to the Ministry. Working for them, being a part of it, I say it's not 'they' or 'we' but '_you_.'"

Ron's face goes bright red. "That's not fair, Hermione. We can't all just quit our jobs when we don't like something. You could just walk away—"

"I didn't just _walk away_, Ron. I left because it was impossible for me to be a part of an institution so corrupt!"

"Great idea, Hermione, and what has that proved?" Harry says, his voice rising to the pitch that signals he's had enough. "Have you been able to _do _anything about any of this? Have you changed anything?" At her furious silence, he goes on. "What ever happened to working within the system to improve it? You used to believe in that. It's why we all came to work here, remember?

"Listen, I understand you're upset, and I even understand the reason _why _you're upset, regardless of the fact that I have to find out about my best friend's life from gossip rags and dramatic public scenes!" He takes a long, cleansing breath, and he's softer and calmer at the other end of it. "But we're not the enemy, Hermione. We're as far as you can get from an enemy, and the same goes for Malfoy. Your anger has no purpose. It isn't getting you anywhere."

With that, he steps forward and wraps his hand around the back of her neck, kissing her on the top of her head. He looks into her eyes for a moment, all the compassion of which he's capable shining out of his own, before he turns and leaves.

Ron offers very simply to take her home and she goes. He stays the next three days on her couch, stumbling into her room in the middle of the night at the sound of her cries.

**:: ::**

* * *

**:: ::**

Six days later, she receives the first letter.

Her heart stops when she sees his elegant cursive on the envelope. She tears it open, reading for clues and answers only to find none. Her stomach falls when she looks to the postmark; it was sent over a month before from some small town in Germany she's never heard of. The myriad stamps on the outside – a few from the wrong country – are what's delayed its arrival.

The Ministry has ways of monitoring the owls of anyone they choose. He hadn't communicated with her before, obviously trying to get the hang of Muggle post. As silly and simple as the letter is, it had clearly been important to him that she be the only one to read it. She pushes down the ache at what it represents and relishes the miracle that it exists at all.

_...Now that I have your undivided attention, in a letter I feel sure will never reach you (these 'stamps' are bloody ridiculous – how can little colored bits of parchment speed a message across land and borders to where it should go? Alas...) I have to confess, once and for all, that I happen to love your hair. Don't get me wrong, everything I've said about it, even going back years, has been absolutely true. It is a bushy bramble of uncouth messiness. I've simply always neglected to add that I love it. _

She washes the tears from her face in a hot, hot shower, dresses, and brushes out her hair to fall long and curly down her back. Stepping outside her flat for the first time in nearly a week, she walks for an hour in the sunshine, feeling the breeze on her face and through that bushy messiness he loves.

The next letter comes five days after that.

_...I've never told you about when I learned to fly. I'd pestered father about it and been put off enough that when he finally gave in, he was rushed and frustrated and it was dreadful. I fell off a dozen times, and when I did take to air higher than his head, I got so scared I pissed my pants. He was angry with me and ended the lesson. I didn't mount a broom again until that day at Hogwarts when we all had class with Madame Hooch. Even then, I didn't fully understand the difference between you and me, but that day I had an inkling, seeing you struggle. I was a snot and enjoyed that I was better than you at something, but I saw that you were at a disadvantage in our world. I felt sorry that you hadn't been allowed the chance to piss your pants with only your father to see. _

She hasn't been back to Hogwarts much in the past five years, but it's not changed at all. The battle scars are there, but it's been rebuilt stronger, and exactly the same to the last stone. It's comforting to come home. She makes her way to the Quidditch Pitch and her appointment with Madame Hooch. In her encouragement and praise, she hears his voice. The air buoys her and tingles like his caress.

Flying will never be something she enjoys, but now she's erased a blot on her past, a failure that left her feeling inadequate in this world that is her home.

Over a week goes by before the next letter.

_...I saw your bespectacled best git the other day, and it's completely ruined my view of this or any other world. As a man of honor, I'm compelled to admit, as far as his friendship to you is concerned, he's not a bad bloke. You should know how much it pains me to say this. It does comfort me, however, as the Man In Your Life, that you're being looked after. I don't want you to be alone, Hermione. That crazy heart that bleeds for ugly and vicious beasts (and I'm not just talking about Crookshanks) needs other people to beat properly. I feel rather confident there's more than enough left over for me._

Harry comes to see her, and things are still awkward between them. She knows it's mostly her fault, but she doesn't know what to say to apologize. It doesn't help that she can't bring herself to be sorry for anything she feels. He tells her that, though it's been hushed up, Astoria Greengrass was taken to St. Mungos two days before. It seems she claimed to have been attacked again in Knockturn Alley; it just so happened she accused the Minister of Magic's _son_of the crime.

As Harry's leaving, he pauses at the door. "You've never been alone in this, Hermione." His voice holds that intense sadness she remembers from just after the war. "I wish you trusted us enough to know that."

A few days later, she meets him for lunch (he meets her at the pub, because she still can't bring herself to step inside the Ministry), and they talk about anything and everything else, and she remembers what it's like to share her life with her friends.

She knows it will be the final letter before she takes it from the mailbox.

It's postmarked a day before the mission on which he disappeared. She sits with it for nearly an hour without opening it, trying to hold on to the moment, to shore up the hope of his return that refuses to die. It's a flame that flickers and falters in high winds, but these letters are brilliant kindling. There is nothing to frighten her in the endless possibility of an unread message; in the time and space between the envelope's seal and his signature lies infinity.

_...I saw red poppies the other day and thought of that poem you read me years ago. Since then, I've pictured an endless field of them stretching between you and me, the result of battles and bloodshed, of healing and remembrance. Poppies bloom for you and me alone though, dropping to sprout with every step we take. Such are the wounds we carry now, the anger and resentment. (Listen to me, Hermione, turning poet! I blame you and that ugly hotel and the night between your gorgeous thighs...) What I want to say is this: I feel sure you've bled and lost enough. Enough for anyone, enough for me, enough for this lifetime._

The wounds of her resentment fester deep down inside her, but she does not want to carry them the rest of her days. Harry's words about the purpose of anger finally begin to penetrate the shell she's built to hold in the pain. It's so thick, she could stand on her rooftop through all four seasons and never feel the elements.

When she walks through the doors of the _Daily Prophet _the next day, she's nearly pounced on by two investigative reporters before she's even within notice of Rita Skeeter. Making her way past all three of them to the back, she finds the office of Bainbridge Kirke, the political writer on staff. His writing is to the point and embellished by nothing but fact. She speaks with him for three straight hours on the record.

That simple act takes the lump of lead that had taken residence in her chest and transmutes it to gold. It warms that shell from the inside and starts to melt it away.

A postcard arrives a few days later.

Fumbling to pull a few days worth of mail from the box, she doesn't see it amidst the junk until it falls at her feet. She stares down at it, her heart pounding, her mind swinging back and forth between cautious optimism and unbound hope.

The town could be in Switzerland, Austria, Belgium... She can't read it or discern the pictures on the front, so beaten and worn is it from its journey. Stamps from two different countries have been used, neither of which look like they match the origin of the postcard, but since the rate is so much cheaper than for letters, she imagines a kind heart decided to deliver it anyway. The date is illegible. The note is scrawled in handwriting that is rushed and sloppy and nearly unlike him.

_I'm trying to come back to you._

That night, she dreams she's walking through an endless field of poppies. Without the weight of family, or obligation, or expectations, or her own mistakes, she walks the length and breadth of Europe to find him. With each step, letters drop to sprout in place of the flowers, each one filled with all she's never said, all she yearns to say. She has answers for every question, anecdote, and declaration he's gifted her with. She has so much to give him in return.

The string that connects her to him has never gone slack. When she concentrates, she can feel him pulling on the other end of it.

**:: ::**

* * *

**:: ::**

She sticks close to home at first, checking the mail hourly, watching the skies for owls.

Her mum's stern reprimand quickly declares it no way to live, and soon she learns how to walk again in the fresh air. It is no one's business that she imagines him walking beside her. She can hope and believe, yet live and breathe without dishonoring anybody. Though she immediately forgives them, she patiently corrects anyone who happens to refer to him in the past tense.

The _Daily Prophet _runs Kirke's exposé, and she is unsurprised when no great rebellion greets it. But though the loudest voices are largely silent, throughout the following weeks the murmurs of the few are filled with outrage. The word 'victim' is bestowed upon an unlikely sort; questions asked, answers demanded. As summer yields slowly but surely to fall, Hermione feels the world as she sees it is no longer just in her head, but ready to take root around her.

To honor the fallen, the lost, the forgotten and the exiled, Hermione pins a Remembrance Poppy at her breast so they no longer need to grow in her heart.

**:: ::**

* * *

**:: ::**

When she returns from her birthday brunch with Mum and Dad, the package is waiting in front of her door.

Frozen, hand on the railing of the staircase to the fourth floor, she stares at the elegantly wrapped parcel with pink ribbon, so beautiful she can hardly stand the thought of opening it. She knows just by looking that inside are chocolates; dark chocolate truffles – her favorite.

She looks around the hallway and back down the stairs behind her as though someone were hiding, about to pop out at her any moment, and instantly feels silly for it. It's a good five minutes before she picks up the present and carefully unwraps it, pausing only to tie the ribbon in her hair. She finds no card within, but the name of the shop is embossed in gold on the inside cover. It's a high-end chocolatier in Diagon Alley, and she's in her flat, through the Floo to the Leaky Cauldron, and out in the crowded street before a minute has passed.

As expected, a business of that sort prides itself on the privacy of their clientele, but she's a war heroine after all, and she's honed her skills of persuasion enough to be given an address. She's shocked to read 'Number 12, Grimmauld Place' in the ledger, but she's shouting it into the Floo in the Leaky a minute later. Stumbling out into the front parlor, she's greeted by a very pregnant Ginny reading a magazine on the sofa. The sheer ordinariness of the scene is a shock to her buzzing nerves.

Ginny seems wryly unsurprised to see her. "Why, hello, Hermione. Aren't you _early_ for our dinner tonight?" Her expression turns immediately serious when she sees the package she's carrying. "Are those _the _chocolates in there?" she says, hands already reaching for the box.

At that moment, Harry walks in, and he looks genuinely startled to see her. Seeing the pink package change hands between her and his wife, he clears his throat awkwardly.

"Honestly, Harry," Ginny says, head down fingering the truffles with relish, "I knew this was either the dumbest or best idea of this whole scheme."

"Scheme?" Hermione asks weakly. Her head is spinning as she looks back and forth between them. "Is he...?" She can't bear to ask her foolishly hopeful question.

Harry purses his lips at his wife before turning back to her. "Listen, he asked me to send it. He said you had to have exactly those chocolates, that you've gotten them for the last two—"

"He—? _When _did he...?" She feels like she's in that rickety lift again, dangerously shooting upward, about to lose her footing.

"—And you know there's no point even trying to talk him out of anything. Not even when you're in the middle of the bloody English _Channel _will he listen for one—"

"Harry!" Ginny bellows, and he stops abruptly, looking surprised in the face of her exasperation. Ginny turns to her, and her expression is calm. "Hermione," she says, her voice soothing, "they found Malfoy. He's fine."

The lift reaches its floor then, and the jolt knocks her legs out from under her. She sinks into the chair behind her, and Harry begins to explain. Hermione hears the story as if through a child's tin and string telephone, missing bits and only absorbing the high points, feeling as detached as if she were at the other end of the house.

Captured along with Jorkins and taken to somewhere in Luxembourg, of all places... The Auror killed within a few days, Draco escaped a week later... No wand, no money, no knowledge of the Muggle world. Working his way slowly... walking, hopping trains... bits of labor to make money for food, sleeping under the stars. Walking an erratic path through the south of Belgium and into France.

Passed through Cambrai... taken ill in Bethune, nursed by a kindly old lady... pushing forward from there, still too weak for travel... collapsing finally at Dunkerque. A small wizarding village nestled within the coastal town, fate brought Draco to be found by a witch and wizard... Harry had been contacted... Draco, too weak for Apparation or Portkey... crossed the Channel to Dover in a fishing boat.

Hermione hears this tale, this epic journey across six hundred kilometers and seven weeks he's taken to return, but only one thing matters.

"Where is he?" she asks, interrupting Harry's description of the wizarding clinic in Dover.

Suddenly he can't make eye contact. "See, Hermione, this isn't my doing – you know what a stubborn, proud git he is. He insisted on getting stronger before you see him. I told him he was thick as a Bludger if he thought that it would matter to you, but you know how little my opinion—"

"Harry," Ginny says in that soft voice that always cuts through his spinning wheels. "So, _why _exactly are you listening to him?"

It takes a moment to dawn on Harry, but when it does, a slow smile lights his face. "Oh. Right." He turns to Hermione and says cheerfully, "He's upstairs."

Gravity no longer holding her to the earth, she shoots up from her seat with a gasp. Ginny's soft laugh sounds her joy as she calls out that he's in the southern suite on the third floor. Moving swiftly to the door in a daze, one thing suddenly breaks through the reverie, the logician in her finding a hole in the story that needs an explanation. At the doorway, she stops and turns back.

"How did they know to contact you, Harry – that couple in Dunkerque?"

Standing with his arm around his wife, he answers as though it's the most natural thing in the world. "I gave Malfoy one of our enchanted coins, the ones you made for the D.A. It's how I communicated with him before, but once he'd lost his wand..." He shrugs. "I don't really know why I kept mine on me. I guess just in case." Reaching into his pocket, he pulls it out and displays it in his palm.

Hermione is overcome. She would run to him, but she doesn't trust her knees to get her there with all they've just been through. "Harry," she begins, her voice thick, tears gathering, "thank you. For everything... thank you."

He looks at her evenly and with the love she should have known never to take for granted. "That's not something you ever need to say to me, Hermione."

The smile fairly explodes on her face and she turns, out the door, down the hall and onward. There is suddenly nothing between them. The endless fields of bloodshed and remembrance, time and circumstance, anger, resentment, and miles and miles of land and sea, become nothing but a paltry three flights of stairs. She fairly flies up them as swiftly as if she were on her broom.

She bursts through the door from the brightness of the hallway into a room shrouded nearly in darkness. All but one window has its curtains drawn, keeping out the bright afternoon sun. Searching, trying to adjust to the dim light, she is startled by Ron jumping to his feet from a chair by the bed, magazine in hand.

"Blimey, Hermione! What are you—" He takes in her face and stance. "This wasn't our idea, alright?" he says in a rush, going on to ramble about arguments with ferrety gits and the endless irritations of having to deal with intractable wankers, but she's not listening.

She sees him.

Draco is lying on his side facing the door, and he's collapsed fully into the mattress like its softness isn't enough to hold the weariness of his bones. His hair and bare skin glow against the large mahogany bed and the gloomy interior, and though he's easily a stone lighter from his journey, his beauty improves the room.

It takes her a moment to notice within all of his glorious, breathing presence the two grey eyes looking out at her. He makes a token effort to push up onto his elbow, but quickly abandons the idea.

He doesn't look angry that she sees though; he's neither embarrassed nor unprepared. He looks at her as though he's been expecting her, as if there's nothing more natural in the world than for them to be here in this room, together.

"Erm, listen, Hermione," Ron says sheepishly, "Malfoy's not actually, officially _here _yet, so just keep this quiet for now, yeah?"

Draco's heavy gaze tracks her every feature, and she wouldn't pull herself from it if Merlin himself walked in the room. They're too far away from each other still, and it's an urgent, physical need to be as close to him as possible. Without thinking, she unbuttons her coat, dropping it to the floor. Beginning on her dress, she reaches behind her neck to unfasten the clasps. Draco's eyes widen as she slides the zipper down her spine.

"Right. Okay, Hermione..." Ron's somewhere to her right, behind her, then moving out the door. "We'll uh, talk tomorrow, okay?" The door closes behind him with a hasty slam.

Hermione realizes she's trembling when she fumbles to remove her earrings and the pins in her hair, but her voice is steady. "Do you have to be so bloody literal, Draco?" He raises his eyebrows in question. "Felt you needed to actually 'walk the length and breadth of Europe' did you?"

He answers in all seriousness, "Don't be dramatic. It was only France."

"_Still_."

Hands steadier with each article removed, she reaches for her bra. Draco is fully alert and his attention is fixed as she unclasps and slides it down her arms. She hooks her thumbs in her knickers.

"Hermione..." His voice is clear and deep. "I fear you're being rather too optimistic."

Shimmying out of this last article of clothing, she shakes her head with a smile. "Bollocks."

His smirk is slight. "Well, _bollocksed _goes more to the point..."

Trailing off as she moves to the bed, Draco flips down the covers and invites her in. She slides between the sheets, shimmying toward him, and they only break eye contact to enfold each in the other. Skin to skin, the warmth wards off the frostbite of their separation.

She slides both hands up his arm, pulling it to lay over her waist. He runs his palm up between her shoulder blades. She slips her calf between his legs. His other hand makes its way into her hair, cradling her head and holding her close.

Trembling from head to toe, she presses her lips to his collarbone. She breathes him in, wanting to say something of the feeling swelling her heart, but her tears become too pressing. He feels them falling on his bare skin and begins to speak, whispering words and sentiments from a letter unsent; precious gifts he offers that she will take her lifetime to give in return.

They break their journey in each other, and the lullaby of his beating heart speeds her to her rest.

* * *

**:: the end ::**

* * *

"...though poppies grow..." is taken from the poem In Flanders Fields by John McCrae

**Quoted directly from the movie, _Atonement_, 2007: **

"Come back... Come back to me."

**Paraphrased from the movie:**

"Had I been allowed to visit you? Had they let me, every day, I would have been there every day."

Please see the amazing fan art made by hey_am for this story at: Though Poppies Grow by hey_am: (remove spaces) 2firstnames .tumblr. com /post/ 11935102294/ there-are-people-there-are-men-who-can-stand ... It's gorgeous!

**:: ::**


End file.
